I Know Who You Are

Maggie does remember, she’s not senile. It was how she imagined it must feel to have a staple gun used on your naked flesh: a sharp stabbing pain and then a dull ache for the rest of the day.

“There is nothing wrong with my memory … thank you.” She’s even more cross with him now, but tries to remain polite; she needs this man to help her become who she wants to be. “You said the biopsy was just a precaution, nothing to worry about.”

The doctor looks down, as though he’s forgotten his lines and thinks they might be written on the palms of his hands. His thumbs revolve around each other in some hypnotic spinning dance.

It is all Maggie can do to stop herself from tutting. He is going to say no to my surgery again, she thinks, and can feel her crossness inflate inside her. She has never been good at controlling her temper; when she is cross with someone, it can literally last a lifetime. She knows that this is neither a clever or a kind way to be, but she cannot help it. She inherited her anger from her father, who inherited it from his, like a genetic disorder of wrath. She sits up a little straighter, trying, but failing to remain calm.

“If you won’t perform my surgery, then I’ll find someone who—”

“I’m so sorry, but what we found was a tumor.”

The room, and everything in it, has become perfectly still and silent, as though his words have created a vacuum and sucked anything she might have had left to say clean away.

“Right. So then take it out at the same time as the procedure.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t possible. You have breast cancer.” He says the words so kindly, she thinks she might actually cry.

“I don’t understand,” she whispers.

“Tests on the tissue sample have confirmed the cells are malignant. From what I can tell, it has spread further than your chest, but there are treatments that might be suitable for you either on the NHS, or privately…”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ve written to your GP. I recommend that you make an appointment to see them as soon as possible.”

“I don’t understand! How can this be happening to me?” Maggie’s voice is louder than before, cracking a little, as though some part of her just got broken. Her eyes fill with tears, and she permits them to spill down her cheeks. It must be over thirty years since she let a man see her cry, but she doesn’t care about that right now, she doesn’t care about anything.

The doctor nods. She can see him trying to arrange some words inside his head, trying to press and fold them into something a little neater, before letting them out of his mouth.

“It’s a lot more common than people realize.”

Maggie hates that word, common. She wishes he would stop using it.

“How long have I got?”

“Your GP will be able to advise you on—”

Maggie leans across the table. “How. Long. Have. I. Got?”

He looks away, then shakes his head before meeting her eyes again.

“It is impossible for any doctor to tell you that, but based on what I have seen, not very long. I’m so sorry.”

Fifty-seven

Men keep disappearing from my life and I don’t understand it.

I run around Jack’s home in just a towel, calling his name repeatedly, as though I’ve developed some unique form of anxiety-induced Tourette’s. I search each of the unfamiliar rooms, stopping inside a child’s bedroom on the first floor. The carpet is pink, and the furniture is white, with a colorful bookshelf in the corner and toys on the bed. The little girl’s bedroom drags me back in time and holds me there for a moment; it looks so much like my bedroom above the betting shop, it’s uncanny. I stand and stare, completely mesmerized. Distraught. Disturbed.

Am I losing my mind?

I lean against the wall, my breathing uneven and rushed, until the stress of my current predicament breaks the spell. I force myself to stand up straight and close the door, as though the memories the room invokes need to be locked away. I search the rest of the house before returning to the lounge, but Jack is not here. I stare at his keys and mobile, left redundant on the coffee table, and feel as if I’m going completely mad. How can this be happening to me again?

I find my own phone and for a moment consider calling Detective Croft, but then I remember where that got me last time: prison. I cannot call the police. I cannot trust the police. I can’t trust anyone. I notice that I’ve missed five calls, then see that they are all from my agent. I could tell Tony that Jack has gone missing, but what would that achieve? I decide against it. I’m quite certain my agent already thinks I am crazy. I see that he’s left two messages; I’ve obviously lost the Fincher film, so it seems pointless to listen. Before I get the chance to hear whatever he has to say, there is a knock at the door and I freeze. I don’t know what to do. I’m convinced it’s the police, that maybe I’m being set up all over again for something I did not do.

The knocking at the door resumes almost as soon as it stops, louder this time, more insistent, as though whoever is out there has no intention of going away. I walk into the hall and see the shape of someone bigger than me behind the frosted glass, but that’s all. What if it is him? The man I was married to for nearly two years, who didn’t even tell me his real name.

It could be him.

I walk to the kitchen, take a knife from the stainless-steel block on the counter, then return to the hallway holding the blade behind me. I open the door, just a fraction, enough to see who is standing on the other side.

“I forgot my keys, can I come in, s’il vous plaît?” says Jack.

I let out the breath I hadn’t known I was holding and step back from the door, watching as he passes by with a collection of shopping bags in each hand. I follow him into the kitchen, replacing the knife without being seen, and pulling my towel a little tighter around my body. Jack puts a carton of milk in the fridge, then turns around, his eyes lingering on my legs beneath the towel before making contact.

“I thought we might need a few supplies, and I also thought you might need something to wear. Apologies in advance if I’ve got your size wrong. It’s all from Portobello market, just some bits to keep you going for now.” He hands me one of the bags, and I can see a couple of dresses, some loungewear, and some new underwear inside. “And I got you these, I know how much you like to run.” He opens a shoebox, revealing an expensive-looking pair of trainers.

“Thank you.” I feel overwhelmed by his kindness, so I don’t know why I can’t stop myself from saying something I shouldn’t. “I didn’t know you had a little girl.” The words come out of my mouth like an accusation, and I can see I’ve caught him off guard.

“Yes, I have a daughter, she’s called Lilly. I don’t get to see her as often as I’d like, with the job, you know how it is.”

Not really. I would have given it all up if I’d had a child.

“Does she live with your ex-wife?”

“No, my daughter was a result of my first marriage. She was born in France and lived there until she was five, that’s why I’ve been trying to teach myself the language. She moved here last year and lives with my sister when I’m working, or here with me when I’m not. It isn’t a secret, it’s just that the whole single-dad thing tends to put people off. I’d love for you to meet her one day.”